


alright let's go you convinced me

by losingdogs



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Begging, Choking, Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, Grinding, Hair Pulling, Humiliation, Lap Sitting, Love Bites, M/M, Playlist, Praise Kink, Teasing, list sentences agogo, other assorted evils the list rlly does go on, r/nosleep but its just my wack McBeth hbo crossovr dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losingdogs/pseuds/losingdogs
Summary: remember that fucked up dog scene in the shining? well,
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Monroe Fuches
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cant sleep what with these 2 so hav another irrelevamt title! perhaps set around the time of the ep w sam?
> 
> [comment recs.. lets get this abomination to 69 songs](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLhG808CcvDPrWeE1MCvXzX5_TS64ud3uV)

It's 10 p.m. on a Friday, and Barry is hunched forward on the couch, looking at old M*A*S*H reruns without really watching them. With the apartment empty for the night, some weird energy had compelled him to run through almost all of his more normal pastimes. He'd got stuck on a video game, read a Stephen King story till it got too stream-of-consciousness, jacked off in the shower then just sat down for the better part of an hour, and watched more TED talks than he'd care to admit. He'd even tried taking a nap just to occupy himself. That last one almost turned into staring at the ceiling and spiralling, though, so he flicked through channels restlessly until he saw men in dog tags.

Barry tries to give a shit as Hawkeye launches into some self-righteous monologue against carrying guns. His headache is getting worse, but he lets the guy rant. It's this or another forty-minute shower.

The kind of stories Nick and Jermaine like, the kind of things he thinks _he_ should like, don't tend to hold his attention. More than five minutes of anything less action-packed than cartoons or military dramas and his mind starts to wander. Sometimes it's kind of nice, like American daydreams about hanging out with Jon Hamm, but sometimes -

Fuches lays down his five raps on the door, and Barry freezes up, terrified. Then he remembers the guys are out drinking with Sasha and Natalie, and he has the apartment to himself.

He exhales roughly, clicking off the TV and heaving up from the couch to let Fuches in before anyone sees him.

"What - get in, get in."

"You want a drink?" Fuches asks, strolling past him like he owns the place, and Barry tries to stay calm as he locks the door behind him. He pivots to watch Fuches scope out his living situation from the doorway, suddenly horribly aware of the rubbish and dirty clothes everywhere. He tamps down the need to impress. Maybe this'll go better if he humours him.

"Yeah, hi, Fuches. We've got beer, um. Water."

Fuches shoots him a wry look.

"Anything stronger? Jesus, it's like a dorm in here."

"... Red Bull?"

Fuches takes off his jacket and shoes and strolls to the fridge, ruffling Barry's hair as he passes. "That's some high school shit, man." The touch has the intended effect, distracting him from what the hell Fuches is doing here, and how he's so easily making himself at home.

Fuches opens the fridge and makes a judgemental noise at the contents. Barry fiddles with his shirt at his post by the door, oddly defensive of his friends' stupid Gatorade and La Croix yet overwhelmed with the urge to apologise. It can't be right that he's the one feeling like an uninvited guest. Wondering what to say, where to sit. Where to put his hands.

Fuches glances at him and his heart squeezes a little. It's just Barry, looking like he often does - like he wishes he was invisible, like he's smaller than he is. He almost wants to say something nice. He knows he could make it sound casual, could pull off just about anything: how far Barry's come, how cool his place is. Hell, he could even admit how much he likes the stupid little outfits Barry's started wearing, each day a little riskier, a little brighter. Instead Fuches just turns to the fridge, busying himself with finding something decent to drink.

He grabs some beer and checks out the kitchen before heading back: a pile of photocopies of the same two lines from an advertisement, a little framed picture of someone's dad or something, a slanted rainbow mug - _I'm so gay I can't even drink straight! -_ encrusted with microwave cookie. Fuches scratches his nose, hiding a smile. As much as he misses sharing a room with Barry, it's good to see he's not surrounded by macho military idiots all the time. This place actually isn't as bad as he expected. Messy, sure, but kind of homey.

Barry's phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see a notification from Natalie. He sneaks another glance at Fuches before opening it, already trying to think of something likable to say in reply. He hasn't really got the hang of Snapchat and Facebook yet, but he likes to see pictures of his friends, even if they call the blurry selfies he sends back cryptid sightings.

It's literally just a picture of Sasha, admittedly with what Nick would call a look going. She's in a mock boxer's stance, fists up as Jermaine mimes an uppercut. Nick appears to be blurrily flossing in the background. The caption has an overexcited typo: "where id her emmy".

Shit, Fuches is making himself comfortable on the couch. Barry crumples up his smile as Fuches waves a beer, already almost empty, toward where he's still guarding the door and stuffing his phone away.

"You got somewhere else you wanna be?"

"No, nope."

"Well c'mere."

Fuches pats the couch and Barry comes to sit grimly beside him. He pops the can open for Barry and hands it over, eyeing the set of his jaw. Even now, the guy's all tensed up, brow furrowed as he grips his beer without even taking a sip.

"What's up?"

Barry sighs, looks at the blank TV screen.

"Nothing."

"Come on, what?"

Barry shakes his head, which is aching more each minute. Fuches knows damn well what, and Barry knows he knows. There's no point in saying it - they can meet at Fuches', they can meet in cars, for work, whatever - but Fuches can't just turn up at his door like this. He wishes he'd gone out with his friends and left him hanging. It occurs to him that Fuches didn't even know Barry was alone. He probably just wanted something and didn't stop to think how it might affect, well, the thing.

"Hey, you can tell me."

His voice is light, inviting. Barry fixes him with a teenager's put-upon glare, just this side of serious. His irritation fades as he sees the goofy look on Fuches' face.

"Why don'tcha come sit on your uncle's lap and tell him all about it?" Fuches leers, and it's so fucking weird that Barry can't hold back his laugh.

"Why don't I get into his white van while I'm at it? Why don't I - "

"What, you're too big to sit on old Unky's knee?"

They stare at each other, mouths shaking. Barry breaks first, of course. He laughs into his fist, annoyed at how quickly he forgives this fucking home invasion, the fact that he even let Fuches in -

"Hmm?"

He's doing his seriously-joking thing, looking at Barry expectantly. Barry groans and leans forward to put his beer on the coffee table.

"You don't really - "

Fuches gets him by the hips when he looks away a second, pulling him across his knees. Barry's ass is wedged where Fuches' lap meets the arm of the couch, his legs in startled disarray. Half angry, half amused, he turns sideways to scowl at Fuches. The bastard doesn't say a word, just smiles and jolts his thigh so Barry falls almost between his legs. He's so fucking entitled.

"The fuck!"

"C'mon kid, talk to me."

Barry averts his eyes, flustered. It's always messy when Fuches says shit like that, dredging up a lifetime of memories. He straightens up and takes a shaky breath in. His voice comes out quieter than he'd like.

"You shouldn't be here, Fuches. Y'know you can't - "

Fuches rests a hand on his thigh casually and the pain in Barry's head inconveniently fades. He's charmed, disarmed as Fuches' free hand picks up his own with care. Instinct tells him he needs to do something bigger than talking to stop this, but he just sits in Fuches' lap, listening to his heartbeat crescendo like footsteps approaching from offstage.

"You can't be here man, you know that."

Fuches' thumb begins tracing patterns on Barry's leg through his jeans, hushing him even as it's obvious that Fuches is playing distraction. His other hand strokes Barry's familiar fingers, the fragility of his knuckles as fresh as ever. He knows Barry's hand better than his own, but it's somehow always a surprise, those delicate little bones in such a strong, capable hand.

Barry's helplessly warm and bright, reminded of a bonfire by the river dozens of summers ago as he watches their hands interlock. It's a stupid feeling, and he lurches his gaze away, but it's too late. He pretty much forgets why he was so angry, stops worrying about how heavy he must feel on Fuches' lap, almost doesn't even care that he's being felt up by the guy he's supposed to be pissed at in his friends' living room. He lets his heavy eyelids drop, along with his defenses.

Fuches' hand strays up his leg, chin grazing Barry's neck as blood rushes through it. He murmurs low in his ear, feeling the answering shiver against his lips. He knows just how to touch Barry, just how to speak to make him melt.

"You sure you want me to leave so soon?"

Barry opens his mouth, then shuts it as Fuches' thumb rubs soothing patterns up his thigh. His legs part slightly, body relaxing against his will. Fuches feels out the new territory, making little spirals moving ever inwards on his thigh, his other hand wrapped tight to the warm pulse of Barry's inner wrist.

Barry can feel gun-in-your-pocket potential pressing into him, and yeah, he knows now that Fuches won't be leaving anytime soon. Knows he didn't come here to talk. He's well aquainted with the sick, heavy ache building deep in his stomach, knows just how this will end if he lets Fuches continue.

"We can't," Barry mutters.

"You sure you don't want it right now?"

"I -"

Fuches lays a warm hand over his cock, and Barry drops his head, swimming in the blue of his shirt.

"I, uh, I don't live alone, Fuches. My - my flatmates could be back any second."

This isn't strictly true - the guys always stay out late, though he can never tell if Nick's don't-wait-up schtick is for real - but Barry's still worried that a neighbour or someone might somehow walk in and catch them any moment.

Fuches stops nuzzling into the heat under his chin, tracing the line below his eye where the skin is soft and smooth as water. His thumb presses neatly into the hollow of Barry's temple as he watches his boy try to contain himself.

"You've got a bedroom, don't you?"

Barry just sits in his lap quietly. Fuches watches his eyebrows come together as he weighs up the pros and cons. Eventually his brow smoothens and he nods his head to his room, forgetting their odd position a moment. He realises his mistake, and with a rush of embarassment scrambles out of Fuches' lap, a slip of the hip sending his limbs everywhere before he staggers to his feet. Blushing, he offers a hand to Fuches, helping him out of the low couch. Barry leads the way to his room, walking fast and glancing nervously over his shoulder.

Fuches of course pauses in the doorway. He's curious as to what this actor guy's bedroom might look like, how Barry's been doing. It's military-level tidy compared to the lounge, if a little impersonal. He scans the walls. No Metallica poster anymore, that's probably a good sign. His gaze settles on the messy vision board above the desk with a smile. Barry fidgets by the bed as Fuches plays with his stationery, idly pushing a pair of scissors back and forth. Finally he shuts the door with a _click_ and turns to face Barry, who's been waiting in the centre of the room.

"Not bad," Fuches says, stepping closer, "decent size. Nice big bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is way too long but also feels weordly fast paced?? mb? how to read my owb writing dot org.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope uall like 1st drafts... ok so just to preface this is.. not nice. like no consent issues or anythin but like. ruff n also bad. if ur uncomf w degrading lang/gross violent nonsense i suggest u dip !
> 
> anyway where is s3 i want to see my little boy

Barry swallows thickly, face darkening as he just stands and stares. Fuches gives him a warm look - _it's okay -_ and sits down on the side of the bed, tilting his head back slow.

As soon as Barry steps into range, Fuches grabs him by the hips, pulling him into his lap as he shifts back so his spread legs are barely hanging over the mattress. The sudden movement catches Barry off guard, and he doesn't resist, even lifting his knees up onto the bed too.

"What -"

Fuches' hands guide his knee to straddle his right thigh, his ass dead-centre of his leg, and -

" _Ah_."

Right there, just a hint of pressure on his cock from the weight he has settled over Fuches' thick thigh. His jeans are too tight, holding him in place against Fuches, who's watching his face turn pink with interest. Fuches pushes his knee up by degrees, coaxing Barry into hardness through his pants. The final crush grinds against his ass as Fuches pushes him down by the small of his back, and he arches reflexively, a little friction, oh -

" _Fuches_ \- mmh -"

Fuches strokes down his back and squeezes lower, pinning him down with ease. He leans in a moment, lips brushing Barry's neck.

"You look so good, baby. Hard already, blushing so pretty in my lap like this."

Barry's face is burning as he squirms under the heat of Fuches' gaze. He finds with Fuches' arms as they are, he can only move back and forth, and he blushes even deeper. The twinge in his belly swells with every uneasy shift of his hips. It's all happening so fast, and he doesn't know if he can move, what he can touch. How much is he allowed?

Fuches reaches up and sweeps a thumb under his jaw, the hard line of it moving pliantly in his hand. He angles his head beneath Barry's chin, sucking at the pulse there. A vocal gasp shudders into his teeth as he just scrapes the surface. God, he loves how responsive Barry is to every little thing he does. He mouths his way to his favourite spots, taking his fill from each and savouring the flesh between his teeth. He bites a smirk into Barry's skin as he cries out, thighs clenching.

Barry is getting hard, wet, a hot dark stain spreading on his jeans as blood blooms in his cheeks. Fuches wants him to know he knows, brushing his knuckles over his dick through the damp fabric.

 _"Fuck,_ " Barry moans, legs falling apart bonelessly.

Fuches withdraws his hand, and Barry wishes he would keep touching him, however he liked, even if it hurt. He rocks tentatively into Fuches' tensed leg, and Fuches _lets_ him, so he falls apart almost immediately. His breath and pants are getting wetter, rougher, his slick only making the denim chafe worse. Their thighs fit together perfectly, he notices, right before he goes under. Like pieces of a puzzle. Like guns and ammunition.

The continued friction makes him forget his embarrassing position and ditch all restraint. He screws his eyes shut and picks up the pace, moans catching on each rut. It hurts so much, such an empty ache. If only he had - fuck, if only Fuches would _touch him_ -

Fuches is mesmerised by this sorry sight, Barry trying and failing to get himself off on just his thigh. His breath is hitching, his fists twitching where they're clamped around Fuches' shoulders.

"Not enough for you? You want some more?"

"Mm, mnnh -"

Barry gulps and jerks his head wretchedly. Fuches nudges his fist to the front of Barry's pants, just teasing, and leans forward to meet the face crashing into his shoulder, the boy sobbing like he's been hit.

"Good, yeah?"

" _Hmnh_ , yeahh - ah, _Fuches..."_

Fuches lightly rolls his knuckles up and down Barry's cock, gentle movements punching out wet moans and twitches as Barry chews his shirt. He flexes his thigh, and it's a little too much for the poor thing - or maybe, much too little. Barry is making soft, hurting noises into his shoulder, straining into Fuches' loosening fist that pulls back as he pushes his hips forward. He sounds almost in tears now, and it makes Fuches throb, loving how Barry's hands shake between their chests as he whines and soaks up his shirt. Fuches feels kind of bad, but not enough to actually do anything that might stop those needy sounds.

Both caring and cruel, he asks the obvious.

"Do you want it?"

Barry stops gnawing his shoulder to beg _yes, please, want you, mm, touch me, please_ , his face burning hotter through Fuches shirt with every word _._ He takes his hand away and shoves it in Barry's hair, pushing his head back to get a good look at him. He's crying, all right, cheeks wet and cherry-red as he gives Fuches huge pleading eyes.

"It's not fair, you - "

"I know, baby. I know."

Barry keens as Fuches smooths his sweaty hair down from forehead to neck. Relaxing his leg completely, Fuches rests his hands on the bed, and the kid can't hold back any longer, choking out desperate puppy begging as he humps Fuches' leg as hard as he can bear.

"Ah, please, Fuches, kiss - _mmh_ \- it hurts so bad I need - _more_ , please, touch me - need you to - _hnnhh - "_

Barry makes such a pretty picture like this: brilliant sunset hues from his collar to his hair, chest heaving and nipples hard through his midnight blue top, million-mile lashes glittering with tears. Fuches couldn't change a thing.

Barry's pitch climbs as he catches on, red with need as he ruts so frantically it's a little uncomfortable for Fuches, too. Something animal creeps into Barry's moans as he gets more and more desperate, crying hard now he seems to be doomed to do this all himself.

Fuches finally puts his hands on him, giving him one over his mouth and another in his hair. Barry hushes, stills. Despite the fun of taunting him, Fuches kind of prefers seeing him all sweet and docile like this. His eyelids flutter, cheeks burning under Fuches' touch. Fuches' hands drug him dizzy, lulling him until he yanks Barry's head toward the small of his back, the move wrenching his neck back indulgently far. Gripping that strong chin in his palm, Fuches taps Barry's lower lip with his thumb. He opens his mouth - _good boy -_ and Fuches pushes the tip inside. Barry immediately pulls in both knuckles like he's trying to get at the marrow, and Fuches swallows a groan, murmuring praise in his ear as he begins sliding in and out of that slick heat.

Every taste and touch is magnified as Barry's hips stutter to a halt, fully focused on getting Fuches as deep as possible. It's like Fuches is pushing his pulse through his entire body, even before he switches out his thumb for three fingers and _thrusts_ , which is like, well, not everything is like something else.

Barry moans and sucks in earnest, cock jerking helpless and sore against Fuches as he takes his fingers again and again. He sits completely still a moment, just letting Fuches fuck into him while he sucks and aches for more. Curling his fingers down into Barry's tongue, Fuches bumps up his leg. The kid just whines something like _please_ , not quite managing the _s_ sound as he arches toward Fuches.

"What was that? You talking with your mouth full?"

Rock solid and mortified, Barry shuts up with a tight little suck that goes straight to Fuches' dick.

"There we go. Sitting and taking it so nice, such a good boy."

Fuches pinches Barry's cheek from both sides, wringing more home video noises out of him, though the sound is more snuff than smut. Barry's eyes water as he groans, humiliated, lapping at Fuches' intrusive palm like the worst kind of guard dog.

Barry's drool is dripping down his chin, straining to swallow as Fuches tugs his throat further back, flexed so far now he's close to breaking. Fuches holds him like that a little longer than perhaps he should, spellbound by the shape it makes him, how his spine bends to his will.

Barry's red and trembling all over, whining like a dog in a hot car as he rocks into Fuches' leg, seeking a tensed muscle, a seam in the smooth material, anything. It's no use. Fuches pulls hard and Barry works harder, moans harder, Fuches' thigh seeming slicked beyond friction.

"Look at yourself. I'm not so sure you deserve my hands. You know what?"

Barry's so wet now Fuches can smell it, can feel it seeping through where he's hot and heavy against his leg.

"Hmngh?"

"I think you can get yourself off, just like this. Just like a dog. What do you think, Barry?"

Barry lets out a high-pitched whine as Fuches' hands slip away, rubbing himself raw. He's thrusting in his own mess, hissing and groaning through gritted teeth. It looks like it hurts.

Fuches just has to rub it in, so to speak.

"You're dripping like a bitch in heat, boy. So loud, too - you proud of this? D'you think you're a good boy?"

Barry keens and tosses his head back, mouth open like he wants something in it.

Fuches can't keep his hands to himself with a sight like that. He shoves three fingers back in and adds a fourth for good measure, Barry groaning as his lips stretch and burn.

He tenses his thigh a little and Barry swallows around the fingers Fuches has got inside him. Fuches allows Barry a twitch of his leg, for being so good. He cries out and spreads his legs, so Fuches gives him some more, jabbing up into the hot hurt there to make a real pet of him. Something builds and burns inside Fuches as he watches Barry latch on and thrust, moaning around his fingers in muffled fits and pieces. Barry's ridiculously hard and utterly humiliated, the hungry eyes on his own do nothing to help, the pressure isn't even direct, Fuches is four fingers deep but he wants more, more, more. God, he feels sick. It's too much. It's not _enough._

Fuches pulls out abruptly, grabbing Barry's leg and yanking him across his lap until Barry is fully astride him. Fuches presses his hips down to meet his own need, sighing as he hears Barry gasp. He rolls one liquid thrust up against his dick, smooth and terrible. Barry reaches up and claws fire down his back as he thanks him with a cute little whine.

"Ohhhh... ughh, mm, _aaaah -"_

"God, look at you, the famous actor next door. Got you right where I want you, whining like a pup."

Barry whimpers at his words, getting louder as they quicken their thrusts. It's like he's trying to prove Fuches' point.

"D'your neighbours think you're a movie star? You want them to hear you yapping through the wall?"

"Mn, Fuches - _oughh_ _-"_

Barry makes a sick-sounding growl from deep in his chest, grinding with intent now that he holds something over Fuches, too. Fuches huffs, almost angry, fucking into him a little harder. Barry shudders in Fuches' messy lap. He's finally getting what he wants and it's disgusting how good it feels. He grits out his pleasure, wet crackling moans like a death rattle, and Fuches gets impossibly harder at the fucked up little noises. Barry kind of sounds like he's about to throw up.

Fuches growls low in his ear. "Yeah, I thought so. What kinda lapdog jus' howls all night?"

Barry does howl, then, the sound strangled as Fuches pushes up through his collar and closes his hand around his throat. He feels his core clenching like his fist, bucking in tandem with the quivering, tear-stained wreck above him. Barry makes a pained sound on a particularly brutal thrust, and Fuches only loosens his grip a moment to hear it before squeezing harder than before, chokes and gulps vibrating through his hand. Fuches struggles to string words together, rubbing Barry so hard it's a miracle they're not both bleeding.

"You like that, hunh? God, you feel so - _hnngh -_ good. You're so good, Barry."

Fuches bucks up savagely and Barry falls hard, shout choked-off as he comes so violently his vision shuts down with the force of it. Fuches finally releases his throat, and he slumps forward into waiting arms. It's kind of reassuring how quickly Fuches pulls him in. Fuches smells so comforting, like he always does, only wilder now, breath hot and loud in Barry's ear. Barry's shallow gasps against Fuches' chest set the rhythm for his stabs upwards, hearts bumping crazily against each other. That ring-studded hand presses his ass down as Fuches keeps on pounding him, relentless.

He can feel his eyes filling then spilling over on a jolting thrust, not from the pain or anything else so much as the - well, the _so much_ of it. Fuches is hard and wanting, taking, each kick of hips confirming that Barry is his and maybe Fuches is - Fuches snarls a fist into his hair and tugs a long twisting pull down, and Barry almost comes again, brain roaring with static.

He's vaguely aware of crying out Fuches' name over and over, the record all scratched and skipping. Fuches is slamming him down as he bucks up into him, fire tearing through his veins, Fuches' name beating in his blood. He can smell their mingled slick and sweat, can hear Fuches grunting in his ear: " _yes,_ fuck, Barry, keep - _oh,_ ugh," can feel his heat everywhere. God, Fuches wants this, he wants _him_ , he needs him the same awful ugly way Barry has always needed him.

Fuches quickens his pace against Barry's overstimulated cock, pulling Barry back to get at his throat as he comes with one last thrust. He bites a curse deep into Barry's neck, feeling the answering cry in his teeth as his hearing whites out.

Barry is shivering a little when Fuches comes back to himself, and he lays a hand on one trembling hip to still him.

"Hey."

Fuches presses out the shakes as Barry catches his breath. His head is spinning, heart all over the place as he sucks in air, blood foaming with new oxygen. Fuches gives him a little squeeze, says what Barry needs to hear.

"Hey, now. Shh, I've got you. Knew you could make me proud. Relax, baby, it's okay."

Barry sighs, muscles relaxing. Fuches can feel his own heart slow as he traces the outline of a mark on Barry's neck, in awe of the blood flushing violet just beneath the skin. He did that.

Barry's head begins to clear as Fuches rubs his side and carefully wipes his face dry. The tenderness is almost jarring.

"In and out. It's okay. Good boy."

Barry feels his already red face overheat, somehow proud and appalled as the colossal embarrassment of the whole thing catches up with him. Did he really just -

Fuches strokes his throat like he wasn't the one who tore it out, then massages his head, gently easing the ache from his scalp. Barry nuzzles into his hand, the familiar scent of Fuches blooming warm in his chest. He doesn't quite try to taste it, but it's a near thing. Jesus. Yep, he guesses he did.

He raises a hand to the hot technicolor pain of his throat, twitching as he touches Fuches' final, claiming bite. Fuches' eyes are fond on his, but the glint there reveals just how pleased he is with himself. He'd made his mark right in the centre of his throat, and he'd made it deep.

The limited wardrobe at Barry's back seems to mock him as he considers wearing a turtleneck in the L.A. heat. He gives Fuches a rueful little smile and sighs. Maybe Hank's right about the scarves in summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thibk i just ruined pet stores 4 myself. god bless


End file.
